


Flowers for My Beloved

by hotchoco195



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Jim being a little too changeable, Language of Flowers, M/M, Notes, Pre-Slash, Secret Admirer, Sherlock taking the lead, Two can play at that game, Viruses and other bugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:59:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1395448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotchoco195/pseuds/hotchoco195
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets a lot of flowers after he's shot. These ones are special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first thing Sherlock noticed when he woke up was the huge red bouquet on the bedside table. They were a mixture of roses and carnations, the two flowers almost identical in shade. He put it out of his mind when he spotted the blond sitting next to them.

“Sherlock,” John sighed with relief, “Thank god you’re okay.”

“John?”

“Yeah. Do you need anything? Water, morphine?”

“I...” he trailed off, disconnected images of Mary and Redbeard and Mycroft floating through his head.

“I’ll get you a drink, yeah? And I’ll let the nurse know you’re awake.”

He stood and Sherlock’s gaze drifted to the bouquet again. John glanced at him, eyes a little pink at the corners, and chuckled when he saw what Sherlock was looking at.

“Oh yeah. I think they’re from Janine. There was a card.”

He picked up the small white note and handed it to Sherlock.

“I’ll fetch your doctor, alright? Just stay put.”

The door shut behind him and Sherlock turned the paper over, the black slash handwriting hard to comprehend in his drug-addled state. He glanced at the flowers. The crimson made him think of bloody bandages, the slow moments of falling in his mind palace...he was pretty sure they weren’t from Janine.

_You got lucky this time, Sherly. Don’t you know you have to wait for me? xo J_

 

The next came a day or two later, after Janine’s rumours had run in Magnussen’s papers and the woman herself had chewed him out. These were dark purple lilies, the colour almost the same as one of his shirts. Sherlock didn’t say a word as the nurse placed them by his bed, nattering about how many admirers he had. The second she left he snatched up the card.

_Sorry to hear it didn’t work out. Oh well, plenty more fish in the sea, right? xo J_

They could have been from John but the doctor knew better than to be so sentimental, especially since Sherlock had been quite clear on the whole fake relationship issue. No, there was only one ‘J’ in the world who’d think sending Sherlock Holmes flowers was a good idea, and he was dead.

Sherlock slipped the card into his pocket with the first one and dialled up his morphine.

 

After he was discharged (officially this time), there was an enormous crystal vase waiting on the kitchen table at Baker St. They were orchids, bright orange and white and yellow, the most exotic and expensive you’d find in dear cold London. He picked up the card absentmindedly, observing that they actually did have quite a nice perfume.

_Welcome back, honey xo J_

He couldn’t leave them where they were. Mrs Hudson would fuss (as if she wasn’t going to already) and John would be too curious and annoying. He lifted the vase, wincing at the tug in his chest, and carried them into his room. And if he thought they looked quite nice by his bed? No one needed to know.

 

On Christmas Eve there was a wreath on the Baker St steps. Sherlock almost tripped over it carrying his things to the car.

“Come on, Sherlock! I don’t intend to sit in London traffic for hours on end.” Mycroft snapped from the window.

“Oh quit whining, Mikey. Anyone would think you wanted to spend time with the family.”

He picked up the wreath and tossed his things in through the window childishly, opening the door to slide in. Mycroft scowled and crossed his legs.

“What’s that?”

“It must have fallen off the door.”

“I should have told you to be ready an hour ago.” He tutted, turning to face the window.

Sherlock snorted and palmed the little white card off the spiky holly circle, reading it where Mycroft couldn’t see.

_Merry Christmas, Sherly xo J_

 

Sherlock watched the trees flash past as they accelerated, his stomach lurching in his torso as the wheels left the tarmac. He was officially off English ground now, with an almost crushing likelihood of never returning. He should have said something to Mycroft about the notes from ‘J’, but for some reason he didn’t think the conversation would have gone well. Either someone would have accused him of writing them himself as an escape, or his brother would have thrown a tantrum that he’d been withholding information.

He looked across the cabin at the small cabinet on the other wall. Someone had thoughtfully provided alcohol and snacks, as if he might be on an actual holiday instead of a delayed execution. There was a very small white spherical vase on top with a single pink chrysanthemum. Sherlock frowned. Did spies get flowers now?

He unbuckled his belt and reached over to pick it up. There was a ribbon tied around the stem right underneath the petals, white with writing on it. He untied it quickly, laying the flower in his lap as he unfurled the fabric.

_Leaving so soon, darling? But we haven’t have a chance to catch up xo J_

“Turn around!” Sherlock called, “We have to go back.”

His phone rang and he glanced at Mycroft’s number, the ribbon clenched in his fist.

 

The car drove away and Sherlock fumbled his keys into the lock, finally getting the door open as he juggled his suitcase and coat. He dropped both by the front door, hurrying upstairs. He was stuck somewhere between relief at escaping the suicidal trip and anticipation of the new game, and he didn’t really notice the state of the living room until he was two steps inside.

“Hello sexy. Did you miss me?”

Sherlock froze. Jim was leaning against the edge of the desk casually, arms folded. The entire lounge was stuffed with flowers, vases dotting every available surface, hanging from the hooks on the wall, petals littering the floor. Sherlock’s brows rose higher the longer he looked.

“Is this your way of telling me you want to be a florist?”

“It’s a token of my esteem, Sherlock. Don’t tell me you’re that ignorant of normal social conventions?” he frowned.

“Normally enemies don’t send each other flowers.”

“I disagree. The occasional black rose can have a marvellous effect on an adversary.”

“What effect are these supposed to have on me?”

Jim shrugged. “They pretty up the place a bit, don’t you think?”

Sherlock’s lips curled so hard they almost creaked. “I highly doubt you created such an expensive display just to brighten up my flat.”

“So snappy, Sherlock,” Jim smirked, “Don’t you like them?”

He bit the inside of his cheek. “I didn’t say that.”

The genius laughed. “Well, let’s just say I’m a big fan of old-fashioned courtship. Our brains have a date, Sherly.”

“Just our brains?”

“I can’t deny you’re nice to look at,” Jim leered, “But neither of us are much for _love_ , Sherly.”

“Oh?” Sherlock smirked, counting off on his fingers, “Red roses and carnations – love and passion. Purple lilies – beauty. Normally purity but the purple changes that to elegance and mystery. Orchids – refinement, luxury, charm. Holly – domestic happiness but also defence. Pink chrysanthemum – fun, and youthful fun at that, almost mischievous.”

“Trust you to know your flowers.” Jim complained, though he was smiling almost proudly.

“I specialise in facts most people consider useless, remember?” Sherlock continued, “Which you knew before you sent them.”

He moved closer, steps slow and cautious as if approaching a feral cat.

“Which begs the question, Jim – is it just my mind you find attractive, or is there something more? Are you perhaps interested in my heart as well?”

The criminal smiled at a snail’s pace, lips barely moving. “Maybe I haven’t decided yet.”

“You’re dangerous.”

“So are you, _murderer_. It’s part of the reason we get along so well.”

“You call this getting along?”

“It’s been five minutes and neither of us has tried to kill the other. I call it progress.”

He straightened his jacket and made for the door, pausing level with Sherlock’s shoulder. He kissed the man’s cheek and tilted his head.

“I’ll be in touch.”

Sherlock grabbed his elbow and the Irishman stiffened. “Wait. It’s only fair I give you something.”

He crossed the room to one of the more colourful bouquets, the blossoms sharper. He picked one with purple-green petals and walked back to Jim, threading it through his buttonhole.

“Dahlia. It means changeable.”

He took Jim’s hand and raised it to his lips, never taking his eyes off the criminal’s. Sherlock released him, stepping back.

“Don’t think too long, Jim. I might come to my senses.”

Moriarty smiled. “If you’re going to keep being this surprising, my decision won’t be too difficult.”

He turned and headed down the stairs, and Sherlock waited until he heard the door close before casting another glance around the room. How exactly was he going to explain this?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most of the time Jim's his own worst enemy.

Jim couldn’t keep anything alive. Hamsters, goldfish and especially plants, they all withered away under his ‘care’. He just had better things to do, things that took up so much time he barely remembered to feed himself, let alone another living thing. And he’d never been much of a nurturer anyway.

But the dahlia…the dahlia was from Sherlock, and even though he knew it was already doomed he put it in a glass with water and sugar and vinegar like they tell you and set it on his desk where he could see it. Its petals seemed to mock him with his own words from the pool. He was changeable, perhaps more than even he’d known, and it looked like Sherlock could change his mind too.

The problem with the trait, of course, was that he often didn’t really know what he wanted. Jim’s moods and desires fluctuated from moment to moment, even with the man he had come to think of as The One, though not in any trite romantic-comedy way. Sherlock was just the only one, much like Irene was The Woman. He mattered in ways Jim couldn’t quite wrap his head around.

When the dahlia inevitably drooped and lost its petals, Jim felt a twinge of remorse. But he was already craving a replacement.

 

Sherlock sat at the table as if it were the finest restaurant in London rather than the dingy backroom it really was. Jim had thought long about possible locations; train station diners were too well monitored, seedy establishments too well known to the type of observers he was avoiding. This quiet café was too unremarkable to be noticed, and the private room off the kitchen was as isolated as Jim and Sherlock could hope for in this city. The air was thick with sizzling greasy smells and smoke, the oily steam making everything feel grimy. The furnishings were tacky, bare Formica with plastic chairs, but Sherlock looked cool and elegant in his suit and he smiled as Jim sat.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“I try to keep all my appointments, unless something comes up. It’s bad business to leave my clients hanging.”

The detective curled his lip. “Am I a client now?”

“Youuu…”Jim sat back, tapping a hand on the surface, “I don’t know what you are.”

Sherlock didn’t seem to mind this vagueness. He reached into his jacket and Jim stifled a flinch. Surely Sherly hadn’t come all this way to shoot him? It would be exciting if he’d misread the other man that badly.

“I’ve brought you something.”

He set a small vial not unlike Jefferson Hope’s on the table between them, sliding it towards Jim. The criminal gave him a curious look and picked it up, holding it against the light. It looked empty.

“ _Clostridium botulinum_.”

Jim smiled slowly, shark-like. What a surprise. “Oh Sherly, you’re not trying to get rid of me are you?”

“I’ve rendered it inert. It’s perfectly harmless.”

“And you’re giving it to me because…”

“Your gifts were so thoughtful, I considered it only decent to return the favour.”

“This is a token?” Of what, Jim didn’t specify.

“The poison that brought us together, first as youths, then as adults. An integral part of the men we have become.”

“Only you could give someone bacteria and make it sound romantic.”

“Is that what it is?” Sherlock tilted his head, dark hair falling over his eyes and casting shadows over those razor sharp cheekbones.

“You were the one who seemed to be harbouring secret fondness at our last meeting.”

“You seemed to share a similar affliction. Have you changed your mind?”

Wasn’t that the question of the day? The perpetual question, almost. “Would you be terribly disappointed if I had?”

Sherlock pursed his lips for a minute. “I know how much you prize your unpredictability.”

Jim leaned on the table, slowly coming closer as he leered at the other man. “But would you be _disappointed_?”

“You already know the answer to that.”

“I know the answers to a lot of things. They’re not always set in stone.”

“Yes,” Sherlock’s eyes flashed, his own face nearing the criminal’s, “I would think it a very great shame to waste this opportunity. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Sherlock Holmes, I could kiss you right now. So easily. And it could be nothing but a kiss, easily forgotten and never repeated. Or it could be a prelude to…further fun. _Or_ it could be a distraction to thrust my steak knife through your jugular.”

“Which would you prefer?”

“I don’t know yet. Does that scare you?”

 

Sherlock didn’t say it should. They both knew normal people find Jim terrifying, that all sensible types would run screaming from the room if their potential partner threatened to idly murder them. But Sherlock is not normal, as everyone was so eager to point out.

Instead he leaned on his arms. “Does it scare _you_?”

Jim took a shallow breath, the sound rasping over his teeth. “Yes.”

Sherlock closed the gap between them, a hand wrapping around Jim’s elbow as he pressed their lips together. The hold wasn’t enough to stop Jim killing him, just a touch for the sake of touch. Jim let himself sink into the gentle caress of Sherlock’s lips, part of his brain cataloguing the technique against what he knows of the detective’s experience, part urging him to show off his own considerable skill, part wondering how those lips would gasp against his if he jammed that knife right into the space behind Sherlock’s ear.

But it’s a very small part, easily eclipsed by the ideas of what might follow later if they went back to Jim’s – or even Baker Street. The potential for new, exciting observations about his favourite nemesis as Jim split him open between the sheets.

Sherlock pulled away first, hand lingering on Jim’s arm. Jim licked his lips, fighting not to bite them and be boringly obvious in his desire. Though, Sherlock is looking at him hungrily enough that he might not mind a little conspicuous appreciation right now.

“Well. Neither of us is bleeding. That seems like a good start.” He said, faint amusement in his tone.

“Indeed. Who knew you could get any more interesting?”

Sherlock stood, buttoning his jacket, and Jim felt a stab of alarm.

“Leaving so soon? I don’t know if I should feel insulted, Sherly.”

“The men Mycroft has following me will have noticed I am not where I am supposed to be. It’s better to kepe him from getting too curious about my exploits at the moment, wouldn’t you agree?”

Jim sighed. “If he wasn’t so delightfully clever, I would get rid of the Iceman for both our sakes.”

“He is useful to know, on occasion. Think of this as a chance to re-examine what you want.”

Jim knew what he wanted. He wanted to throw Sherlock over this disgusting table and have him right there, tawdry surroundings or not. But he also knew that could change in an instant.

“I’ll clear some room for it in my schedule.”

Sherlock smirked. “Thank you for the date, James. I thoroughly enjoyed myself.”

“We’ll do it again sometime.”

The detective nodded to acknowledge the promise and walked out as unflappable as ever.

 

Jim stepped out of his meeting (The Ritz-Carlton, were none of his clients original?) and into the back of the waiting Aston Martin. It was a bit showy but he had an image to maintain, and the leather interior was really quite nice. His driver pulled away from the kerb and headed through the traffic to the safehouse where Jim would switch vehicles before heading home.

He took out his phone, passing on his more urgent orders and doing a little background check on some of the new information he had. Jim slid it back in his coat with a sigh and sat back, drumming his fingers on the arm rest. Someone should really do something about the state of London’s transit system. Maybe he’d sort it out for them for free, just for fun. Maybe he could sell his solution to the Iceman – even more fun. He’d love to see the statesman’s face when he realised there was no ulterior sinister motive.

He crossed his legs, foot inadvertently knocking something over. Jim frowned and reached down, fingers scraping over the carpet until they met something small, cylindrical and cool. He picked it up and recognised the vial. There was no label. Grinning, he took out his phone again.

_Another gift? Lucky me xo_

_Mononucleosis. I believe they call it the kissing disease - SH_

_Still thinking about the other night?_

_Difficult to stop, actually._

Jim smirked and pocketed the vial. Viruses might seem like a strange courtship present, but at least the Irishman couldn’t kill germs with neglect.

 

The next one was left on his doorstep. Jim almost stepped on it on his way out, but as soon as he noticed the vial he stopped, shaking his head. He was more impressed with Sherlock than ever – not just for tracking him down, but for resisting the temptation to knock and give it to him personally. He knew Jim liked a good air of mystery.

He could have had it analysed, but there was no fun in watching other people solve Sherlock’s puzzles.

_What’s this one then?_

_Yersinia pestis – SH_

Jim couldn’t help laughing out loud.

 _The Black Death – I am **incredibly** flattered_.

_Also called the Bubonic Plague. I thought it was appropriate, don’t you?_

He frowned, thumb circling the lid of the vial. Bubonic Plague? Jim could be called a plague on society, that was certain. Bubonic though…it was Greek. It meant ‘groin’, a nod to the large growths the disease caused. Groin plague – was that what Sherlock meant?

_I’m not sure I like that comparison. Makes me sound like some beastly STI._

_I suppose it was a bit convoluted, but thoughts of you **have** been plaguing me for some days now._

_Me or my groin?_

_Both. Perhaps I’ll send you syphilis next, since you seem to have the potential to drive me mad if left untreated._

_Syphilis has an easy fix these days._

_So I’m told._

Jim put the vial back inside on his hall table. As entertaining as it would be spending all day with a reminder of Sherlock in his pocket, he didn’t want to lose it, and you could never tell in his line of work. Some clients got nasty.

He headed down to the car that had been idling for ten minutes now and opened the back door, freezing at the sight of the consulting detective sprawled comfortably against the seat. His arm rested on the windowsill, long legs taking up so much room it was positively obscene. Sherlock smirked at him.

“I find myself in need of a remedy, if you’d care to help.”

“Looking for your easy fix?” Jim bit his tongue to hide a snicker.

Sherlock slid over, cheek almost pressed against Jim’s. “Who said anything about easy?”

“That’s your weakness, Sherly. You always want everything to be clever.”

“I won’t deny it. It’s what I find most appealing in you, after all. Now are you going to invite me in or do I have to come back another time and do some creative housebreaking?”

Jim smiled. “Seems a shame to turn you away after you’ve gone to all this effort. Perhaps you should come in.”


End file.
